


Come Together

by Guardian Of The Lotus (DistantStorm)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Don’t copy to another site, Falling In Love, Flirting, Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Sarcasm, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-18 00:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/Guardian%20Of%20The%20Lotus
Summary: “A young city planner set his eyes on an older militiaman. He was unkempt and terribly forward. The militiaman had class. He wasn’t interested.”“Clearly,” Marc tells their friends. "That’s why they decided to get married.”(A story told in bits and pieces.)





	1. Chapter 1

Every day around half nine, Devrim notices his fellow patrolman giving him a strange look. It’s one of piqued curiosity and amusement. It doesn’t last more than a few moments, but every day he wonders a little more about the reason why.

Finally, after a few weeks of the bizarre treatment, he looks to his squadmate and asks her about it in the most polite way possible.

And, as always when he makes some mildly disgruntled query, the woman laughs. “You haven’t noticed, have you?”

“Noticed what?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome checking you out. Every morning. Same time, same smoldering gaze.”

“Looking at me?”

“Well he certainly wasn’t looking at me,” She spouts amusedly. “He walks from the south elevators to the hall every morning. Look for him tomorrow. You’ll see what I mean.”

Devrim is about 98% sure she’s having a laugh, but to be sporting, he keeps himself angled toward the top of the elevators the next day. He doesn't see the man coming, but he definitely feels the heat of a steady gaze.

The man's eyes are a rather interesting shade of hazel. Both cool brown and vivid green, trained on him. Giving him quite the once over.

When he notices Devrim looking his way, the look of intense scrutiny melts into a devastatingly charismatic smile.

And then, the bastard has the audacity to wink.

Devrim blushes profusely for at least an hour. His partner tells the entire squadron. 

This is the first time he sees his future husband.

-/

"Hey, handsome."

Fast forward a few weeks and the man is behind him in line at one of the food vendors in the Tower Bazaar. The insufferable one who has been winking - or, Light take him, waving - as he goes by in the morning. It's all Devrim can do to keep his eyes straight ahead and pretend he has become one with the wall himself.

His squadron has a pool for how long it will last, if the guy will give up, or if Devrim will cave. It's rather annoying that they've all got their money on him giving up and taking the old boy to dinner.

"Can I help you?" He asks, brusquely.

If the militia man's discourteous tone bothers the other, he gives no indication. "I mean, hopefully," He says, his voice a mellow tenor that's surprisingly palatable when it's not dripping with flirtatious salutations. "I could use a partner for lunch."

Devrim frowns. "I'm afraid I have to get back."

"No you don't. Your pack is over at that corner table you sit at every day. You have at least another forty-five minutes."

Mystified - and a bit uncomfortable at clearly being watched - Devrim falls silent. They shuffle to the front of the line.

And just as he's about to order his usual - turkey sandwich, no tomato, the other man speaks over him. "Two of the falafel, please. With that scrumptious aioli on the side."

"Excuse me," He begins, furious, but the man's moved around him, already tapping his ID at the register. He catches a glimpse of the name in the sunlight before the name, "Marcus, but I don't believe-"

"If I'm buying you lunch, you should call me Marc. I _hate_ being called Marcus."

"Well, _Marcus,_ I don't take kindly to someone assuming to know what I'd want," He pushes back, irritated. It sounds childish to his own ears, and his cheeks are already flushing again.

"And what is that, exactly?"

"Well for one, I always get turkey."

"Every day?" Marc looks at him like he's crazy. "Turkey is boring, darling. Try something new. May as well," He grins, taking the two containers from the vendor with a mock salute, "Seeing as I was kind enough to buy you lunch." He gives Devrim another devious wink, thrusting the second container into his hands before sauntering off in the direction he'd come, never actually planning to sit with him at all.

-/

"I'm beginning to think you're stalking me," Devrim says, when he sees the familiar face take the seat next to him at the bar. He's had a few pints with the squad, so he follows that with a slightly more forward, "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or concerned."

"Be flattered. I usually lose interest quickly." Marc waves down the bartender.

"That what you tell every man you pursue?"

Marc holds up his newly received mug in a mock-toast. "Only the ones I think I have a shot with," He answers, brutally honest. "You know, I've bought you lunch," He purses his lips, "I must see you at least once a day in the Tower," He turns toward Devrim with a little shake of his head, "And yet I don't even know your name.”

"For how often I've caught you evaluating my appearance, I think you do." After all, his last name is embroidered on the breast of his fatigues.

"Alright, you caught me," Marc admits, with a dramatic roll of the eyes. "You this stingy all the time? It's like bashing my skull against a brick wall." 

Devrim chuckles. "N'aww, not used to being shut down? Poor lad." His piercing gaze cuts like a knife, cast sideways over his drink. "You're not really my type, _Marcus_."

"Devrim Kay, the eighth," He drawls, just to prove does know the other man's name. "You're a real prick, you know that?"

Devrim throws some glimmer on the counter as he finishes his beer. It's enough to cover both their tabs. He leans in before he goes, as if telling him a secret, "My dear Marc, I think that's why you're so enamored with me."

-/

“Alright,” Marc says that following Monday, as he slides into the booth across from him with a turkey sandwich, no tomato - he’s picked them off and set them aside - topped with some of that aioli he seems to enjoy so much, “I’ll bite. What's your type?”

“Refined,” Devrim answers with a sigh. “More my age. None of this,” He gestures to the almost wavy hair that reaches just past the top of Marc’s shoulders.

“What?” He gestures to his longer hair. “You don’t like this?” His hands flail in a confused gesture. “What’s not to love? I’d let you pull it if you want to.”

Devrim coughs, choking on his lunch. “I beg your pardon!”

“You a prude?”

“Go. Away.”

“Make me,” Marc sasses, shoving the turkey sandwich into his mouth and making an obscene sound over the taste. “I swear, that aioli makes everything better.” He pushes down the flap of Devrim’s container to see half of an order of falafel. Aioli on top. His grin is haughty at best, and positively shit-eating to boot. “Oh good, nice to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.”

Devrim rolls his eyes and pushes the container away from him. “Thank you. You’ve now spoiled my lunch.”

“Oh, cut it out,” Marc quips. “I’m sorry I called you a prude.”

“You are not.”

“No,” He agrees. “You are, if me making a comment that mild upsets you. But, upsetting you wasn’t my intent. Being laid back wasn’t working, so I was trying to be more forward. You’re sure you’re not interested?”

The militiaman tucks back into his meal without a word. He doesn’t ask Marc to leave again, so they eat in relative silence. Afterward, he sighs. “I will allow you one opportunity. After that, you will cease to follow me around like a lovesick puppy dog.”

Marc’s eyebrows shoot up. “Unless you want me following you around like a lovesick puppy dog.”

“I doubt it.”

“Friday night work for you?”

Devrim levels Marc with a cool glance that makes him swallow hard, pupils blown wide. That son of a bitch. He isn’t the one doing the chasing and he knows it. The older man scribbles an address down on an unused napkin, sliding it across the table. “Pick me up at eight.”

-/

This is not the kind of date Devrim had in mind. Honestly, it’s not the first date anyone should have in mind. Had they gone to the Blustery Brew, it would have been better. But no, Marcus said he was taking Devrim to a mixer.

“This is not a bloody mixer,” He growls, evaluating the large dormitory-style space they’re traversing. “This is a frat party. What are you, twenty three?”

“Twenty six, actually,” Marc grins, running a hand through his hair. “Y’see,” He reveals, like it’s some well-kept secret, “I sort of have a thing for older men.”

Devrim rolls his eyes. He’s been doing that an awful lot lately. Marc navigates through the crowd of people, most of whom greet him with gusto, a hand on Devrim’s wrist to keep him close by. “Clearly. I’m ten years older than you,” Actually, eight and a half, closer to nine but who’s counting, “And this is_ not_ my cup of tea, if you will”.

Filling a paper cup with punch from a large jug sitting on a counter, the younger man has the audacity to ignore him, refuting his earlier point, “There’s fraternizing at any party. None of these people are in a fraternity so therefore, it qualifies as a mixer.”

“Cheeky. But this is clearly a party for children. Are all of these people even of age?”

Marc looks around, taking inventory. “Probably? Look, I’m not asking you to play pong, but there’s a good band that starts in an hour, and the balcony has a great view of the City and the Traveler. We’re not far from the Core.”

Devrim relents. “Very well. I told you you got one shot.” Not his fault if Marc chooses to ruin his chances right out of the gate.

“You did,” Marc agrees, handing him some punch. It smells like cheap liquor. Devrim shakes his head, resigning himself to at least having a decent story. “If nothing else, the dreadful locale will highlight my sparkling personality.”

“Right.”

“Let’s go up to the balcony,” Marc gives him a grin that’s almost equal parts cocky as it is apologetic as someone turns a stereo in a room nearby. It’s something synthesized and abrasive to Devrim’s hearing. He adds, “You should stick close. These people aren’t used to me bringing this level of eye candy to a party. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried to steal you away from me.”

“I’m sorry, eye _what_?”

-/

Somehow, he ends up sitting on the rooftop of this shitty little building until nearly dawn. The band is garbage - he saw that coming. But Marc is quick-witted and funny when he’s not being a smug bastard, and the cheap liquor goes down like water after the initial burn. He doesn’t really introduce Devrim to anyone, but he falls into conversations with others with a lazy sort of ease.

And Devrim will admit, under the mild influence of alcohol, that Marc has a lovely smile. He really could use a haircut, though. He’s presently dozing off on Devrim’s shoulder, hair falling messily into his face.

Devrim plucks the half finished cup from Marc’s hands before he can spill it, his hand relaxing as he fades. “This was a horrible first date,” He whispers, combining their drinks into one cup, stacking Marc’s empty beneath Devrim’s now nearly full one.

“It was, wasn’t it,” Marc murmurs into his shirt, resting bonelessly.

Even so, he puts an arm around Marc’s shoulders. “It was positively dreadful,” Devrim admits. Most everyone is gone now, and the air has that crisp chill, that slight dampness associated with the coming morning.

“You wanna plan the next one?”

“Presumptuous, aren’t you?”

Marc pulls back, looking up at Devrim. It’s so close to the underbelly of the Traveler here that there was a pale purple light that kept things visible, even in the dead of night. “You’re still here,” He grumbles tiredly. “I’m taking it as a victory.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” He settles back in, fitting just right beneath Devrim’s chin. Devrim does his best to ignore that and be irritated by the mess of curls tangling in his well-trimmed beard.

“Don’t fall asleep, Marcus.”

“I told you I hate that,” He buzzes, waving a heavy hand. 

Devrim laughs. “I know. At least tell me where you live so I can get you back in one piece before you nod off. I can’t imagine you’re one for sleeping on rooftops.”

Drowsy, he mumbles, “You planning to carry me home, old man?”

“Old man? _Bah_. Aren’t you the one interested in silver foxes?”

“I’m interested in you,” He rephrases. “Would you really carry me home?”

“I could, but I think it’d look more appropriate if you walked.”

“Would you come in, if I invited you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh.” Marc sits up, pulling away, shaking his head to reorientate himself. “Well you did say it was a horrific date,” He reminds himself morosely, patting his cheeks to wake up. They’re already pleasantly pink from the alcohol and the cold.

Devrim rises without issue, turning to offer him a hand. Marc looks at it dumbly for a moment, before taking it. He’s hauled up effortlessly, the force sending him forward, past his center of gravity. Devrim catches him with a firm grasp on his shoulders, and a kiss that’s both chaste and blazingly hot. It lasts for hardly a moment, just long enough for a brush of lips, and then Devrim is steering him toward the door that leads down to the exit and Marc is positively reeling - speechless - from something that is hardly anything.

Devrim walks him home in silence, their steps in near-perfect sync. 

When Marc goes to step up the half-flight of steps that lead to his door, he gives Devrim a quick head-tilt, the question wordless but present, but the invitation apparent. Devrim nods in a striking no. “Off you go.”

Marc sighs, defeated. “Thanks for giving me a shot, I guess. See you around?”

Devrim cocks his head to the side. “Too tired for the bravado, I see,” The orange glow of dawn is beginning to sneak up on them. “I’ll meet you for lunch on Monday-” Marc perks immediately, surprise flashing unfiltered across his face. “- provided you don’t fawn over me when you pass by in the morning. It’s terribly embarrassing and certainly not the way to convince me to plan our next outing.”

“I can’t make you any promises, Dev.” That cocky look is subdued, but he gives him a once over for show all the same, lips parting in a radiant smile. “I’m a sucker for a man in uniform.”

“Of course you are.” Devrim rolls his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

He enters the office with an impressive swagger come Monday morning. Manages not to piss off Devrim, passing him on his way in without so much as a direct look. Marc could absolutely feel that coldwater gaze on his back, though. Good, he thought.

Devrim meets him for lunch, arriving at noon like clockwork. Marc makes another concession, already having his usual meal sitting there, waiting for him when he sets down his pack.

“What, no aioli? You’ve only been trying to get me to put it on everything for nearly a week now.”

“Hello to you, too,” Marc chirps, pulling the extra from his take-away container and holding it out between his index and middle fingers. “Knew I’d convert you eventually. Artisanal food is my specialty.”

“I didn’t know the City employed food-tasters,” Devrim sasses him. “Is that what they do in the Planning Office now?”

“Oh, of course,” He agrees, treating Devrim to an eye-roll that’s been stolen from his own playbook. “Who needs infrastructure?”

“You’re a monster. Who needs infrastructure, indeed.” He grumbles.

His reply begins with a laugh. “I’m kidding. I _love_ infrastructure,” Marc leans in, his eyes on Devrim’s lips before flicking up to meet his intent gaze. He hopes it’s as heavy as it feels, flirtatious but not overwhelming.

“Is that so?”

Marc’s eyes light up. “It is.” 

“What _do_ you do in the City Planner’s office?”

He shrugs. “I fool around until someone gives me something to work with.”

“Like what?”

“Like the redesign of the Market District, or the Plaza, or the Consensus Hall.” Devrim leans in as Marc leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, giving Devrim a peek of the chest hair that peeks from his unbuttoned collar. His hazel eyes flash as he grins. “I’m an architect.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth, enunciating that final ‘t.’ “Lead architect, actually.”

Devrim shakes his head. “At your age?”

“Trust me,” His smile errs toward sheepish then, “My subordinates hate me.”

That earns him a laugh. No sarcasm, no irritated expressions. It’s glorious.

Marc cannot wait to get this man under him.

-/

Devrim cancels their second ‘official’ date, that Thursday.

He’s managed to come down with a nasty cold, the bark of his cough making Marc wince as he sees him that morning. He receives a message on his tablet - having only just exchanging contact info on Tuesday.

_>CO sent me home sick. Afraid we’ll have to reschedule._

Marc takes one look at the message and scoffs. Instead of going home to change into something a bit more date-worthy after work - well, now going home to mope over cancelled plans, technically - he heads to the market for supplies and directly to the address Devrim had scribbled on that napkin he definitely isn’t keeping in a box atop his dresser since he's already memorized it.

Of course the other man lives on the upper, but as luck would have it, Devrim's neighbor lets him in without him having to use the outside buzzer. For the best, since he wasn't really sure what he was working with and grabbed a little bit of everything.

He only sets one of the three heavy bags down outside the door, preferring to do so rather than bash his produce against the wall beside it. There's some rustling from inside the flat - thin walls, he catalogs for later - and then the door opens a crack.

Red eyes, feverish cheeks, pink nose… no doubt about it. Devrim is sick as a dog.

"Did I - I swore I sent you a message saying I had to cancel," Devrim says, his voice hoarse but no less rugged or handsome.

Marc turns on his most charming of smiles. "You did. Thought I'd come-"

"I'm not dressed."

The door closes immediately in his face.

Undeterred, Marc knocks again. More insistently than before.

Devrim throws the door open a little more, just in time for Marc to catch his attire.

"_WHAT_," He snips, irritated. Genuinely so.

"You're in pajamas. And a robe." Marc's eyes don't leave Devrim's face for once, and his smile fades into something less put-on and more genuine. Affection bleeds into his voice as he teases, "You're plenty decent. Let a man cook for you."

Whatever comes out of his mouth is more grumble than actual words, but he's allowed entry. Even if he knows it's mostly due to Devrim wanting to lay back down. Devrim waves him in the general direction of the kitchen - sparse, but expansive - and he sets the bags down before he returns to what's clearly a living room. Surely if it has been any other time and the other man not been sick, he'd have been given a tour.

But instead, Devrim is reclined on a chair, though it's clear he'd been laying on the sofa based on the blanket and box of tissues there.

He opts for transparency. "Figured you wouldn't be up anything crazy, so I'm making chicken soup. I'll force you into trying something new when you can actually taste it."

Devrim casts him a tired glance, as if silently willing him to get on with it.

"And lay on the couch, would you? I'm not about to make a pass at you while you're sick. I'm not that trashy."

"Is that so?" He coughs into his elbow, and cuts his momentum in half. He doesn't manage to spin it into an eloquent insult.

"I'll be in the kitchen," Marc says, pressing cool fingers against Devrim's forehead as he passes. He's burning up. Maybe he should have grabbed some cold medicine. "It'll take a bit, so let me know if you need anything."

-/

He wakes in the middle of the night with a gasp. He's still on the couch, which explains why he's so stiff. Only the light over the kitchen stove is on, casting a sliver of light into the living room, enough to see the reflection of a glass of water he definitely did not set out for himself on the coffee table. He knows this because he would have used a coaster.

Beside it is a scrap of paper.

_Soup in fridge. Feel better._

_-M _

He sags back against the cushions, listening carefully. He barely remembers Marc showing up, he'd been so out of it, but he remembers that the other man had brought groceries. After a moment of intense scrutiny he determines that unless his senses are failing, he's definitely alone in the apartment.

Groaning, he rises, taking the cup of water with him and drinking his fill before forcing himself to see what force of nature has wrecked his kitchen.

What he finds surprises him. Whatever dishes he'd used are sitting in the rack, his cutting board cleaned and replaced on the hook near the range. Even the garbage has been emptied. It's as if he'd never been there in the first place.

"Well I'll be," He marvels aloud. He opens the refrigerator to find a large stockpot of soup, proof that Devrim needs a better array of storage containers and that Marc was not joking. 

He searches for a ladle in the drawers, only to discover it and a single place setting laid out on the counter beside the refrigerator. Shaking his head, the sick militiaman takes his time reheating the bowl.

It might be mean, but he's glad Marc is long gone when he tries it. He might be sick, and his sense of taste might be lacking, but the soup is out of this world.

-/

Marc isn't surprised to see someone else standing at Devrim's post the next morning.

What he is surprised to see, however, is the lush bouquet of cream-colored roses delivered to his office while he's out at his ten o'clock meeting. He does not want to imagine what Devrim paid for same-day delivery. Assuming they're from Devrim.

At least, he really hopes they're from Devrim. Cream roses are a rather traditional flower of gratitude. Seems his style.

He waits until his nosy co-workers buzz off, slipping the card into his suit jacket to prevent them from asking. Which they do. Surprise flowers are the most exciting thing to happen in the planning office since his secretary adopted a dog. Which was cute, but the event has come and gone and Marc would be more invested if it was a cat and not some yappy little thing the woman keeps insisting upon bringing to the office.

When the anticipation feels like it’s literally killing him, he very covertly removes the small envelope and opens the card, which has an elegant scroll of ‘Thanks’ embossed on the front of it.

Inside, it’s blank.

It’s from Devrim alright.

His tablet buzzes around the time he’d go for lunch. Which, without anyone to meet, there’s no point, so he grabs another coffee and tries to get ahead on a proposal that has to go in front of the Consensus next week. It’s always extra brownie points if he gets it in early to Zavala.

Marc nearly forgets that he’s missed a message, he’s so in the zone. More than likely it’s from his secretary, who will insist on bringing him something to eat even though he’ll stop for something on the way home.

The reminder buzz interrupts his double check of a materials analysis.

_>Take away? Assuming you and your new secret admirer don’t have plans._

Marc grins.

_<I’ll see you in a few hours._


	3. Chapter 3

Marc kisses with what he calls passion, but it's lacking finesse. Every flick of his tongue is done insistently, desperate for more, downright sloppy in Devrim's estimation. Devrim himself might have gone a minute without a significant other, but Marc doesn't strike him as a man who goes long between relationships without a plaything. This is either a ploy or he's sorely in need of proper coaching.

He's social, his nights start out with a group, and if he's lucky, ends mano-a-mano. Not that he doesn't enjoy a night in - clearly. That's why he's nudging Devrim's head back against his sofa and pretending like he isn't thinking about straddling the older man while he curls up beside him.

Devrim lets him guide things, waiting, seeing how far the younger of them wants to push. He can't deny that there's a certain wantonness to how eager Marc is for it.

There's a moment when he's panting into Devrim's neck that the militiaman brushes his knuckles down the side of Marc's throat and he whines, high and sweet.

"Fuck," Marc curses, nipping Devrim in retaliation, but not hard enough to bruise. He's learning, Devrim thinks to himself. Perhaps he isn't as hopeless as he'd thought. "Fuck, I wanna see you under me."

Well. That's not what Devrim was expecting.

Determined not to have this conversation - it's been three weeks, this is not ending in the bedroom - Devrim lets his hand drift down Marc's side and to his hip, lacing a finger through his belt loop and giving a little tug.

The barest insinuation has Marc climbing atop him, careful not to grind down. Devrim fixes that with another innocent touch down his spine, hands splaying on Marc's lower back like it's commonplace. He allows himself a throaty groan when their sexes grind against each other, casually threads his fingers through Marc's hair. Tugs.

He comes undone immediately, his brows pulling together, eyes fluttering shut and rolling back into his head all at once. 

Devrim chuckles when Marc slumps against his shoulder, giddy and breathless. He whacks the other side of partner's chest with the back of his hand. "What're you laughing about?"

"I thought that might have been an erogenous zone," Dev deduces aloud.

"Sorry to be predictable, but it clearly was," He huffs, sans bravado.

"No disappointment here. That face you made was worth any frustration I'll suffer." 

Marc rolls off him, flopping bonelessly against the couch. "Really, you don't want-"

Blue eyes pin him where he lies, sparkling with amusement. "It's fine." Marc slumps gratefully into the cushions. It earns him a real laugh. Devrim manages despite it, "You - heh - you look like you could use some time to recover."

Marc kicks his thigh but doesn't move, and Devrim only laughs louder.

-/

Their next foray comes after an expensive dinner - Devrim knew French, so Marc couldn't surprise him with frog legs like very obviously been hoping. Every time Devrim speaks in the love language, he watches Marc's pupils dilate. The lower he speaks, the more the effect becomes immediate. He drags them back to his flat - a fancy high-rise in the Peregrine District.

A combination of that, excellent wine, a very romantic jazz ensemble in the corner of the restaurant, and the rapidly deepening kiss Devrim bestows upon him in the elevator has Marc keyed up, hands nearly fumbling his keys.

He lets them drop to the floor with a clatter, not bothering to turn on the lights when they enter, pushing Devrim against the back of the door and sinking to his knees.

"I owe you," He whispers up at him, letting his fingers trail up the musculature of Devrim's thighs before hovering over his belt buckle.

"That seems to be the case," Devrim agrees, swallowing thickly.

Marc makes short work of his trousers, pushing them down his hips before tracing his rather interested erection through his pants. Devrim sighs when he gives up the ghost and pulls them down too, licking his palm and wrapping it around his partner's hot, velvety flesh, guiding him into his mouth without further ado.

For a man so usually impatient, Marc takes his time, swirling his tongue around Devrim's tip, being mindful of how to inflict a guttural groan, what makes him clench his fists at his sides, or tip his head back against the wall. He lingers at the parts Devrim seems to enjoy, drawing them out, letting the sensation build. 

As he approaches his peak, Devrim tries to warn him, but Marc is insistent, palming his rear instead and forcing the gentleman to come down his throat with a muttered "fuck!"

"You like that?" He asks after, smirking as Devrim takes a moment, breathing hard, leaning against the door.

"I'll admit," Devrim says with a sigh, "That was," He clears his throat, breaking off with another heavy sigh as Marc swallows, grinning, making a big show of licking his lips and flashing his teeth.

"You are such a prude," Marc tells him. "Let me guess, you don't return the favor." There's no malice there, Marc's simply pumping him for information. In fact, most of his cheekiness is used to mask his nerves and self-doubt, Devrim notices.

So instead of a direct answer, he puts his clothing to rights, dragging an enraptured Marc to his own sofa and pulls him in close. "I guess you'll find out," He whispers.

Marc shivers.

-/

Devrim accompanies him to a work event, a true mixer this time. He's equal parts over the moon and terrified. Marc has only made one very large mistake since coming to work for the City Planner's office, and that was dating a superior, very early on in his tenure.

The other man has since moved into the private sector, but he's always invited to events like this, and he always makes a pass. It's a superiority thing. And Marc hates it with a passion.

Usually he gets nice and obliterated, then carries on happy-go-lucky like nothing has changed. The obliteration becomes a small bender, he has a good greasy meal around noon the next day, then sleeps until Monday morning, wakes up right as rain and pretends like nothing's happened.

But now he has Devrim. The last man he'd brought to one of these… Marc shudders. It was over a year ago, but that had been a breakup he still only remembers in bits and pieces, something about being called an insecure brat and then being dragged to his door by an upset cabby. (He'd made formal apologies to both, after, and took better care to stay just sober enough to make it home.)

The nerves both paralyze him and fuel his ability to consume liquor, and the fact that this party celebrates an eight-month project he'd been the lead on doesn't help. Devrim stays at his elbow, cordial, polite,and dashingly handsome, excusing himself with a hand at the small of Marc's back to go see about hors d'oeuvres for them both.

As luck would have it, that's when his old boss appears. He throws back a shot easy, flashing a toothy smile. Before, it had mostly been about getting flirting, getting Marc riled up, maybe a dance. Now, it was all that and a job proposal.

Marc does his best to be kind but disinterested, and it doesn't have the 'buzz off' effect he's going for. He can't shake the guy before Devrim returns. It's going to be an issue, he stresses internally. Devrim is too polite, he won't make a scene, but he'll be angry later.

He's fucked, Marc thinks. The whole thing is fucking ruined. He knew he should have gone alone, but things were going well and-

Devrim places a hand on the back of his neck, thumb brushing against the edge of his collar and clammy skin.

"I don't believe we've met," He says, effectively interrupting whatever Marc's pursuer is saying, Marc himself hasn't been paying attention: the sound of his heartbeat in his ears is too loud. Devrim extends a hand to the other man. They shake, but before his stupid ex-boss can pull away, Devrim leans in, speaking innocently, "You wouldn't be trying to upset my Marc, now would you?"

His jaw must hang, and it makes his ex laugh. "Wow, you're Marc's new beau," He slaps Marc's shoulder, and the temperature in the room must drop about forty degrees. He finishes the rest of his liquor to keep warm, waving down the bartender for another whiskey while he's asked, "Where'd you find this one, Marcus? The cover of a magazine?"

"Our paths crossed through work," Devrim informs him, his voice mellow, almost light, really. Marc thinks about texting his secretary now, he's going to need until at least Tuesday to drink away all memory of this trainwreck-to-be.

"Oh, how sweet!" He's interested. Of course, the ex is interested. He's always interested. One time, he'd stolen a date from Marc, right in front of his eyes. "What do you do?"

While Marc frames his temples with his hands, leaning over the bar from where he sits on the barstool, Devrim answers, "I'm City Militia."

"Wow." He knows that tone. That's the appraising one he uses to reel someone in.

"It's not all that glamorous, I assure you," Devrim croons, tilting toward the bar. He gestures, "Say, can I get you a drink?" He asks, and Marc feels tears blur his vision.

Fuck, he thinks, on a loop. He's going to need the entirety of next week to get over this. He is not drunk enough to handle this situation. Finishing his new drink in three swallows doesn't help any, either. 

"What do you do with the militia?"

His ex sounds closer now. Marc lets his head drop to the counter, cradled by the cross of his arms. The bartender doesn't ask as she passes with their order, just refills the glass in front of him almost to the top.

"Mostly civilian patrol and Tower duty in peacetime," Devrim says, innocuously. "But," His voice drops an octave and every nerve in Marc's body tingles. "You see, I'm a sniper. The Gentleman Sniper, they call me." Marc dares a bleary look over his right shoulder. Devrim stands between him and the other man, blocking Marc's view entirely. 

"I've always enjoyed the thrill of lining up the perfect shot," Devrim continues. "I have a great deal of patience, not to be taken lightly. There is something to be said for a sniper's observation skills as well. You have to be able to read a situation, understand what your target is thinking." He lifts his drink to his lips and take a sip, smirking, "I am good at that. Good enough to know you've been looking at Marc here for the majority of the evening, and that your decision to approach when I stepped away was more than mere coincidence."

"That's not-" The stammer comes from the other side of Devrim. Marc turns, in time to hear him say, "You're just a plaything to him, that's how he operates."

Devrim chuckles. It's sinister, not sarcastic. "I don't think I am. And even if I were, at least his standards have gotten better." At the resounding silence in their little pocket of the bar, he follows that up with a dismissal. "You have your drink," He nods down to the scotch in the other man's clutches. "Enjoy your evening."

The feather-light touch is back at his nape, and the tears come even easier than when he thought all was lost. He keeps them at bay, but not the tremors they come with.

Instead of giving in though, he finishes his whiskey with a flourish and gives Devrim a grin full of watery bravado.

"Say the word and we'll go," Devrim tells him, gentle as anything, lips at his temple.

"I won't let him ruin my party," Marc says, willing himself to sound like he's still having a pleasant time. He meets Devrim's eyes to prove he's not lying - though he is, through his teeth. "Besides, that was hot. Really hot." That part is true, at least. He didn't feel like a child bring protected. He felt valued, equal. The right kind of belonging. Not something he's used to.

Devrim's ears are pink. It's adorable enough to make him forget his concerns for a moment. "I worried I might have overstepped," He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No. That was amazing," He says, honestly. "You're amazing."

-/

Marc gets absolutely annihilated. Devrim isn't expecting anything different. He'd expected such an outcome even without the interference of the inbred idiot who attempted to ruin their evening. He manages to steer him to his own flat before the whole thing goes to hell, but it's close. Marc is weepy the entire way, slurring apologies and self-disparaging commentary.

"You can go," Marc tells him, shoulder bouncing off the wall as he stumbles toward the washroom. "I'll be- oh fuck-"

There's no way he can leave him in this state, either. Not that he's feeling particularly inclined to. He's very much aware that Marc was rattled going into the evening, and now that he knows why, leaving would only feed his insecurity.

Following him into the washroom leaves him in an unpleasant predicament, the younger man expelling alcohol and bile mostly in the direction of the toilet. He's certainly no stylist, but he manages to locate a hair tie and pull Marc's lengthy hair back into a neat-enough ponytail despite his hiccoughing retches. Marc swats at him - in gratitude, Devrim is sure - before returning his grip to the porcelain.

When all is said and done, he's still terribly drunk, but manages to suffer through brushing his teeth. Devrim uses some mouthwash himself and drags his partner to his bed without complication.

In the dark, Marc clings to his hand, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry," He apologizes, frantically. "I never should have-"

"It's alright." Devrim strokes his forehead.

"No, it's not. It's not like that. I used to be like that and maybe - maybe I wanted it to be a fun little tryst when we started, but it's not like that," He rambles, imploring Devrim to believe him. "It isn't, I swear. I don't want you to think I'm just fucking with you, Dev, really, I-" Two fingers are pressed against his lips, effectively cutting him off in the dark. He feels Devrim move, feels strong arms wrap around him, pull him into a solid chest that smells like sandalwood cologne.

"Hush, darling," Devrim tells him. "I know. You gave that up weeks ago."

"I want you to like me," He whines pitifully, tears staining his partner's undershirt. "I don't want you to think it's a game. He said-"

"Whatever that wanker said," Devrim growls firmly, "I promise you, I do not believe. Whomever you might have been when you were involved him, you are not that man now."

"How do you know?"

Devrim kisses him, bringing the arm that's slung over Marc's side up so he can palm his cheek. Tears fall onto his fingers before he pulls back, pressing his lips to Marc's forehead as well.

"Because. You've had plenty of opportunities to push the envelope and you haven't. You've gone out of your way to offer me an out, even tonight, when it was a celebration of your admittedly impressive achievements. All for my comfort." He wipes the tears from Marc's cheeks with his thumb. "I tread carefully into relationships, my dear Marc, I assure you. If I thought you had anything but good intentions you wouldn't have gotten a first date, much less a do-over for what was honestly a heinous outing."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" He mumbles, but it doesn't sound nearly as sad.

"Not on your life," Devrim assures him. 

He strokes his hair, nudging Marc's crown beneath his chin. "You're going to be hurting in the morning."

"Worth it," He hums. "Sorry in advance for whining. I'm going to be horrible, I can feel it."

"Oh, I think I'll manage."

"What, you gonna leave me alone to suffer?"

"I figured I'd take you to breakfast, assuming you have a shirt that buttons up all the way I could borrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Marc wakes to the insistence of water and headache tablets, the cradle of a strong embrace, a hand guiding the glass to his lips. He could about drown in the heaviness of Devrim's eyes, when he blinks into them. They're affectionate, clear and gentle, the most beautiful shade of blue. He stares up into them dazedly.

"N'aww, and here I was expecting you to throw a tantrum," Devrim chides.

"I-"

Devrim presses a kiss against his forehead, not allowing what was surely going to be a self-flagellating comment. "You could use a shower," He encourages. "You'll feel more like yourself."

As if taking inventory, Marc looks at him, surprised beyond measure. "You're not ma-"

"You do remember me telling you we're going for breakfast, yes?"

He nods dumbly. He remembers all of it, and he almost wishes he didn't.

"Good. I'll be in your sitting room."

He scrubs a hand over his face, calling after Devrim, "Who even calls it that?" To do so makes his head feel like if could explode, but it makes him feel lighter when Devrim laughs. He shuts the door to the bathroom before opening it once more. "Wait, did you actually wear one of my shirts?"

"I would have, if you woke before half noon," He calls from down the hall. "I've been home to shower and back."

"You should bring some things here, for next time," Marc calls, apparently still drunk enough from the night before to not know when to shut his mouth. He could smack himself, but Devrim hums something thoughtful, not exactly shutting the idea down.

Devrim does not let him choose where they go, opting for some tiny 24/7 diner built into the lower level of an apartment complex near the Market District. It doesn't look like much from the outside, and at first glance, he doubts they have espresso.

He's surprised. The food is good. Greasy, great for following up an all-nighter, counteracting the lingering alcohol in his system. It's not a designer meal, but it Marc appreciates the traditional homestyle cooking, ordering far more than his stomach can handle. Devrim doesn't even call him out.

And they do, in fact, have espresso. It's not the best he's ever had, but he's too hungover to be picky. That he's not drinking coffee that tastes like dishwater is a blessing. Across from him, when is said and done, Devrim sips his tea, laying his hand rather invitingly across the table.

Marc drops his hand over top and Devrim laces their fingers.

"Feeling better?" He asks.

"Darling, you have no idea." He's feeling something, alright.

-/

He starts feeling an acute ache when they're not together. He's not so needy that he can't last a work day or something ridiculous like that, but he's slowly becoming spoiled - long nights spent curled up on the couch, Devrim leaving in the middle of the night, neither of them sleeping as well separately as they did, dozing together. Or cooking for two, making Devrim discover he actually does have a more expansive palate. 

But, being City Militia meant sometimes Dev had assignments, small tours of duty outside of the Tower, in the City Outskirts and beyond. Most of which did not provide reception for contact, and thus, Marc sat home, draped across his couch, alone. Devrim had been gone for two weeks with a third to go. Life was… admittedly dull without him. Marc certainly wasn't keeping up with his housework, not bothering to cook or do dishes. Take out containers were strewn across his coffee table, he'd throw them away when he felt like moving.

Which, he didn't. He might just lay on the couch all night, marinating on his loneliness. He'd tried going out with friends, did dinner and drinks and casual outings. None of it made him feel better. 

He sighs, readjusting his position to get comfortable on the couch, finally succeeding but then his tablet starts going off. That was strange, it was late.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Marc."

"Devrim?" He perks, surprised.

Devrim laughs. He always finds Marc's shock to be both comical and endearing. "Didn't know we had satellite communications?"

"Didn't think you knew how to use them," He quips back, righting himself on the couch as if to help him focus. It has nothing to do with his dick standing at immediate attention, making it painful to lay as he was. "How's it going out there?"

"Well. We're following a team of Guardians. Simply establishing network communications. Patrol beacons and the like for the Vanguard."

"Sounds interesting." If Marc sounds distracted, he is, the sound of Devrim's voice lighting up every nerve in his body, making him tingle. Traveler above, this man has a handsome, sexy voice.

"Has its moments." Dev inhales, surely to ask what Marc as been up to, but is interrupted.

"Like what?" He asks, breathlessly.

Devrim's laugh goes deeper, low and smooth, like he knows exactly what Marc is doing. Like he's well aware that his lover has his pants undone and his cock in hand. Fuck, Devrim's smart. He probably does, Marc thinks. Smug bastard. (It only makes Marc hotter for it.)

"I'm not sure you really care about that," Devrim croons. "Certainly there's more interesting things going on over there."

"No," He grits, twisting his hand just so and trying like hell not to moan. He sounds flustered. It'll have to do. "Stat-tus quo," He hisses. "Nothing of-" He bites his arm though a spike in his pleasure, "Note."

"Sounds like there's _plenty_ happening." His voice dips lower, turns cheeky. "Out with it, Marc. What're you doing?"

"You know _unf_-" Whoops, that slipped in, "What I'm doing. Bastard."

"Describe it to me."

"You want to have phone sex?" It's almost enough for him to forget what he's doing for a moment. Almost.

"That would mean that the both of us are participating. It's close quarters around here, my dear Marc," He pauses, and Marc sighs at the endearment. "I'll have to settle for something a bit less obvious." Another pause. Almost secretly, in less of a whisper and more of a rumble, Devrim commands, "Marc: tell me how you're pleasuring yourself."

"Oh, wow." His grip on his cock tightens, his back arching at the surprising forwardness. "You son of a bitch," Marc curses. "I'm-"

"Surely you're not close yet, we just got on the line."

"And you're sure," Marc gasps, "This does nothing for you?"

"Oh, it does plenty. I simply don't have the luxury of- You're on the couch, yes?"

"Yes."

"Lay back."

He whines, not able to help himself as he complies, "This is so hot, Dev. I can't-"

"Pretend it's me."

"Fuck."

"Yes, precisely," Devrim's voice drops into that lower register again. "Stroke yourself slowly."

"Oh, we're really doing this, I-ah, not so prude as you let on, huh?"

He laughs, seeing through the younger man's rambling."You're too close, Marc. Slow down."

Marc doesn't want to. He wants to hear Devrim say salacious things, to croon utter filth in his ears until he spills all over himself. But he does. "Okay," He whispers back. "Okay."

"Good, Marc. You're doing well." Marc can hear the smile in his voice, can picture that amused twinkle in his eyes. "Relax, darling. Little more pressure, but don't go any faster. I wouldn't."

Marc releases his length for a quick second, licking his palm before resuming that slow, teasing pace Devrim always uses. "This is-" He shudders. "More, Dev. More."

"Mm, I suppose. Not too much. I have a few minutes before I have to go back. Wouldn't want you to-" He pauses, likely as someone passes his tent, then his voice returns to that familiar rumble. "Make it last for me, Marc. I want the last thing I hear to be you moaning my name."

"I want you," He whimpers, arching his hips up into his hand. "Devrim-"

"I know," He says, sounding terribly pained. "I miss you as well."

It can't be helped. Marc is too far gone to care if the sound of him jerking off comes across the line. And if nothing else, he's relatively certain he's not the only one breathing heavy. He might not be touching himself, but Devrim is surely affected, too.

"You're on my mind constantly," Devrim whispers, laughing, "Though you'd certainly hate it out here. Too many bugs, but the views are extraordinary."

"Tell me about them."

"Faster now. A little twist at the end should do it." Marc's head falls back with a sigh, forcing himself to wait, not to take what he wants. He's close. Not there's not yet, but Devrim walks him ever-closer, describing sunsets that paint the sky pink, tying it to the color his chest flushes first when he's aroused, how it rises up to his cheeks.

"You're so good at this," Marc keens.

"Ah, you're good at listening, my dear. You've done admirably." He sighs. "Regretfully, my time is almost up. Don't hold back, darling. Let me hear you."

He’s ready for this, hell bent and determined from the start to burn the sounds of his orgasm into his lover's ears. When his grunts turn into a devastatingly soft sigh, and he can feel his balls tightening, almost at the edge-

"My dear Marc, how I wish I was there," Devrim tells him, nothing sexual about it, wistful and longing. "I wish I could hold you in the come down, kiss your brow and tell you how beautiful it is to watch you fall apart."

-everything bleeds white. His vision - maybe he’s just closed his eyes, he doesn’t even know - his hearing, all of it. He doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s babbled to Devrim as he came, so inherently focused on his voice, the way his words wrapped around his consciousness like a blissful haze.

“Still with me, Marc?”

“Mmm?”

Devrim smiles, he can hear it. “Easy, darling. I have to go. Do set your alarms before you fall asleep, I know you’ll forget. It’s late and you’re always so scattered afterwards.”

He does as he’s told, holding the tablet in one hand and flipping the toggles for his morning alarms on auto-pilot. “I thought you said-” In all his other sexual hangups, one or both parties hung up after, the conversation almost awkward in light of what they’d done, but this… this was far better.

“It would seem I am reluctant to hang up,” Devrim hums softly.

“Me, too.” There’s a sleepy quality to his voice. It’s been a long day, and this really took the rest of the wind in his sails. “I miss you.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“Call me if you can. This - sexual reasons aside,” Marc yawns. “Was nice.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” The sound of people joining him cannot be missed. “Goodnight, Marc. Do make it to bed, won’t you?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” He grumbles, boneless and well aware that moving means he has to clean up the mess he’s made both before and during their call. “But I guess I’ll indulge you.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s Friday. Devrim comes home a day early and doesn’t tell him.

He knows because there are red roses in his office this time, and his secretary tells him, “A very handsome gentleman stopped by as I was opening up this morning and asked me to give these to you. He had the most remarkable blue eyes.”

Yes. Yes he does. And now Marc can’t focus because there’s red roses in his office and they smell heavenly and Devrim left a note with dinner reservations and how in the hell is he going to make it to 19:30?!

He makes it until lunch, at which point he decides he can’t take any more, texts his secretary while she’s out to let her know to hold his calls, and goes home. He’s going to drive himself mad pacing in his office, and work is slow with the Consensus still deliberating on what his office will work on next. Better to spend his afternoon getting ready.

He could use a hair cut, he thinks. And a manicure.

Neither of those take terribly long, but he spaces them out, goes to the market district and finds a new shirt, some nice trousers. He might not button up his shirts all the way(though he hasn’t heard many complaints about that lately), but he knows he looks roguishly handsome in maroon.

When he gets back, he takes a bit of time to clean his flat up and before he knows it, it’s time to get ready and leave. Which is good. Assuming Devrim doesn’t invite him back to his place, Marc is definitely inviting him home. They’ve been together for almost three months now. They've skirted around the edges enough. It's time to take the plunge.

He sets out candles, just in case.

-/

Whatever Marc was been expecting for their first time, Devrim was certain it wouldn't go off that way. Had been for some time, really. Marc was the kind of man who hid his insecurities, his lack of self-worth with trinkets, fashion, and grooming. Devrim has never seen the shirt or trousers Marc's wearing, and he's helped his beau pick out clothes for events before. His hair is shorter, too - still long enough for Devrim to tease him, but he's had the dead ends cut off. It's bouncier, the natural waves much more pronounced. He looks lovely, that much is undeniable - his playful commentary be damned - but it doesn’t sit right with Devrim.

He charms his way through dinner, gradually relaxing with the aid of wine, hand holding, and the necessary teasing, but then, the moment they leave the restaurant, its back. Marc is fidgety. On edge.

That won't do at all.

"Come home with me," Marc asks, when they step out into the street, "For the weekend."

“Is that why you’re so worked up?”

“I just-” He trails off, and Devrim kisses him, both hands on his cheeks.

There’s a moment of silence in which hazel and blue eyes regard each other carefully. “I’d love to,” Devrim admits, a certain heaviness to his gaze. “Just let me pack a bag.”

Marc sighs in relief, and Devrim knows he’s right.

-/

The second Devrim is through the threshold of his flat they’re tangled together. Marc all but shoves him down on the couch, panting into his neck, kissing down his jaw - eager, so fucking eager - to get to the main event. It’s not that he’s not kissing his partner back as arduously, because he is, or that he’s not enraptured himself. Marc is so hell-bent on drawing a reaction from him, showing him a good time - half of his shirt is already unbuttoned and Marc is starting on his belt - that it’s not right.

This must be equal, Devrim thinks.

“Stop,” He says, and Marc draws back immediately, staggering off him looking positively terrified, “Let’s talk about this.”

“I-what?”

“Sit down, darling.” Devrim takes his hands, pulling his partner down beside him, their knees brushing as they turn toward each other. “You’re trying too hard.”

Marc looks flabbergasted. “You’re welcome?”

Devrim tilts his head. “If you don't mind me asking, how many partners have you been with?”

“Men or women?”

“Either.”

“Maybe ten?”

“In committed relationships?”

“Far fewer.”

“Ah.” Devrim nods. “If this goes south between us, a word of advice: your partner should endeavor to please you, just as much as you please them. You’re smart, witty, and, as much as I tease otherwise, terribly attractive.” He smiles at him, genuine. “I suspect, based on that gentleman who ruined your party a while ago, that you have not been treated to the kind of relations you deserve.”

“But-”

“Allow me to rectify that.” His eyes soften, and his voice dips low. “Lean back for me?” He asks and Marc does, carefully folding up one leg on the couch, letting the other sag to the side, planting his foot on the floor as he lays back against the opposite armrest. Devrim removes his belt and turns toward him. 

“I know you’re impatient, Marc. I am, too. But-” He crawls over his partner, settling a knee between Marc’s thighs to create a heady friction, rocking slowly. Marc bucks into it, worked up, very much wanting. “Intimacy requires a certain finesse. It’s a delicate dance.” He leans back, unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it across the coffee table before reaching for the hem of his undershirt, turning it inside-out as he discards it, too.

Marc stares as Devrim takes both of his hands and moves them to his waist before leaning forward, sliding his leg down the couch so that he’s all but laying on top of him. “Kiss me,” Marc hears himself say when their noses almost touch. Devrim obliges.

This isn’t the same kind of kiss as the ones they’d shared moments ago. This one is deeper. Like Devrim has angled his mouth as if to drink from him. He feels this kiss in his toes and the thought of it makes him moan, grinding upward without thinking about it. That sparks a chain reaction - Devrim leaning back, exposing his neck, that bobbing adam’s apple, and Marc chases him, placing a tender kiss to it before sucking a bloom on the side of his neck. Devrim lets his eyes flutter closed, grinding down, fresh out of breath.

It’s slow and hot, sweat making the hairs at Marc’s nape curl tight, the way they slot against each other, just kissing, hands wandering. Devrim doesn’t push him for more, not until Marc’s hands grip him tighter, fingers trailing from his shoulders to dig into his hips, palms grinding against Devrim’s ass to increase the friction between them.

When he pulls back, Marc exhales, shaking. “Bedroom?”

Devrim’s eyes glimmer brightly, a smirk curving the corner of his mouth. “Lead the way.”

Their fingers come together, Devrim’s right in Marc’s left, heading down the hallway to his bedroom. 

“Oh!” Marc withdraws, looking for the lighter he’d meant to set atop his dresser. Devrim waits in the doorway, his deep blue gaze intense as he watches his lover fret. “Let me find-”

“You could light this house on fire right now, and I assure you I wouldn't be able to see more than you.”

“That’s… wow.” He turns to look at Devrim. “Really?”

“Yes.”

  
“Got it,” He says, crossing the distance between them, pulling Devrim closer, kissing him as he works to remove his own half-unbuttoned shirt. When they’re chest to chest, he turns them around, meaning to walk Devrim back against the bed.

But Devrim dips down, easily hauling Marc up against him, flipping their positions and laying him into his own mattress. The effortlessness of the action, of Devrim’s strength, startles him. This isn’t the norm for his previous relationships. It had always fallen to him to lead, to chase pleasure for him and his partner both. Even so, he found himself complying without conscious thought, scooting back so that Devrim can follow him, crawling over him once more, let him press bruising kisses down his neck and shoulders, rake his calloused fingertips over his pecs and the slight layer of fat that covers his abdominal muscles. It felt good, so good. 

“I want you.”

“How?” Devrim rears back and reaches reaches for his pinned lover’s belt, removing it and undoing the button of his trousers with ease. “Around you? Inside you?”

“I’m usually-”

“What do you want, Marc?”

“Even if I wanted it inside, I’m not prepared,” He admits softly. “I hadn’t even thought that-”

“Certainly you have lubricant, yes?”

“Yes,” Marc agrees. “In the drawer beside the bed.”

Devrim retrieves it without preamble. “This isn’t a one-off,” He lilts softly. “You don’t have to be prepared. I’d rather you not be. I want to work you open, feel you clench around my fingers.”

He groans at the prospect, not so much the action as the amount of care Devrim is willing to put into things. “Where in the fuck did you come from?” Marc asks, shoving his pants down his legs, shaking. “I don’t even - you’re too perfect,” He shivers.

“Not at all.” Devrim dissuades.

“What can I do for you?”

“Enjoy it.”

“But-”

“Do you know how much I enjoy hearing the sounds you make when I touch you? I swear, that call,” The militiaman shakes his head, helping the other remove his clothes from his ankles, “The sounds you made are burned into my brain. I want to touch you and make you feel like that.” He inhales, trying to compose himself. “Your reactions get far more of a rise out of me than you realize.”

“By all means,” Marc flashes him a toothy grin, now naked, but far more confident than he’d seemed at the beginning of this, “If that’s really what gets you off…”

“It is.”

Marc swallows, his arousal bobbing against his stomach in time. “Alright. I’m ready.”

The grin he gets at that is something he hasn’t seen before. Devrim strikes him as many things: serious, sarcastic, indulgent. This smile is downright playful. Gorgeous. “Not yet, you aren’t. We’ve got a ways to go.”

-/

He feels like they've been at it forever, his cock weeping against his stomach, twitching insistently. Devrim doesn't want him to touch, so his hands stay clenched at his sides, fisted in the bedsheets. Meanwhile, his vision swims as Devrim ever so slowly rocks two fingers into him.

Even now he's teasing, pushing the limits, trying to make Marc beg for more.

"D-_ah_-don't you want to move it along?" He rocks up into the next one, feeling how much he's already eased. He can probably take Devrim no problem, now. It shouldn't be- "Oh, fuck that's the spot," He grounds out, as surely Devrim strokes his prostate and he has to arch out of it lest he come then and there. "Dev, come on, you've gotta wanna come by now."

"My completion is secondary, dear Marc," Those blue eyes are calculating, intense as they study him, narrowing on this length and the pre-come on his abdomen. He wets his lips, considering.

"Devrim, if you suck my dick, I'm going to explode."

"I thought you insisted I was too prude for such actions."

"That-that was before you started with the phone sex and the fingering and_ oh, fuck me,_" He babbles as Devrim's fingers press against his prostate again, but far less insistently this time. The effect builds gradually, bubbling up into something Marc surely cannot deny. "Please. Please fuck me."

"See? That wasn't so hard, darling. All you had to do was ask."

"You're a real bastard, you know that?"

Devrim removes his fingers and Marc gasps at the sensation of emptiness, looking up at the ceiling. He hears the rip and tear of foil, knows for certain what Devrim is doing.

"Sit up for me, that's it," Marc wraps both arms up and around his neck, can feel the heat of Devrim's length against his entrance. Devrim kisses his brow, lets Marc's head rest on the cradle of his arms. "Look down," He instructs, and Marc's not angled the greatest, his own cock is very much insistent and in the way, but he can more or less see Devrim push himself in.

Not that matters, because holy fuck does he _feel._

Marc watches his head fall back when he rocks once, twice, watches his eyes fall closed and his eyebrows draw together, knit in pleasure and concentration. "Good?" He asks.

"Bloody incredible," Devrim admits, pinning Marc's length between them for a salacious kiss. For Dev, it's sloppy - proof to Marc that he's worked up, too. "I've dreamt about this," He admits, slowly establishing a rhythm.

"Wait, wait, what?" Marc clenches around him, as if to tell him he's not changing the subject. Devrim groans and Marc grins. "You can't say that and not tell me about it."

"I-" He lays Marc down again, pushing himself up and onto the bed at the same time, so they're face to face. This grinding is far more intimate, and while Marc would surely love to get his hand between them, he's distracted, waiting for Devrim to finish what he's got to say. "The night after I called you," He admits, breathless. "I dreamt of you."

"How?"

"This is close."

"Show me.

Those must be the magic words, because Devrim nips his lips when he leans in for another kiss, and his pace speeds up. "You're going to be the death of me, Marc."

"Good way to go," He gasps back, arching beneath his lover. Devrim finds his hands and pushes them down on either side of his head. “Like this?” Marc asks.

“Yes,” Comes the answering growl. Devrim leads with his hips, making slow, sharp drags against Marc’s insides. “Just like this,” He says, with the least amount of composure Marc’s ever seen on him. “I pushed into you until you painted the both of us in your come,” He admits, breathing heavily. 

“That’s filthy,” Marc hums, nudging his hips up to deepen the angle. They both feel it. “I love it. Let’s do that, yeah?”

Devrim is skeptical. “You’ll come without my hand on you?”

Marc keens. “Oh, yeah. Keep rocking me like this, shouldn’t be an issue. This is fucking amazing.”

“As long as it’s good for you.”

“It’s the best,” He promises, back arching off the bed. “You’re the best. Y-y’just feel so good, Dev.”

“Marc,” He rumbles, guttural and strained.

“Oh, say that again.”

“You’re going to ruin me, Marc,” Devrim leans down to whisper in his ear, his lips grazing the sensitive cartilage, nose nudging against his sweaty hair.“You’re taking me so well.”

He feels the reverberation of Devrim’s sex-strained voice in his toes. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Keep talking, Dev. You’re gonna push me over the edge.”

“Am I?” He rocks hard and Marc bears down on him without thinking. “Oh, that’s good,” He hums, hips stuttering. “Brilliant, Marc. Better than I could have dreamed.”

“Yeah?”

“Without a doubt.” He picks up the pace. “I’m close, darling. You with me?”

“Little more, jus’ a little more,” He slurs. “I need-”

Devrim releases his hands, kneeling more upright, grabbing both of Marc’s thighs and pulling them up, wrapping his legs around his waist.

  
“Oh, Devrim-” He throws his head back in a howl. “That’s the spot, Dev. That’s the-”

“Keep your legs locked around my waist. Don’t let them drop. We’re almost there.” He grunts with an authority that only makes Marc cry out more, supporting his lover’s weight as he presses back down against him, entwining their fingers once more. Marc’s tightness around him is nearly unbearable; He’s close. “I can feel it, Marc. Can you?”

“Yeah,” He sighs. “Yeah.” He rocks back under Dev, out of time. “Oh. Light, stars, fuck. Devrim, I’m gonna-”

“Yesss. Come, my Marc. Come for me.”

He does. He all but screams, enraptured as he finishes, his dick spilling between them both in hot ropes of spend. Devrim follows him, moaning his name more lewdly than Marc’s ever heard it said before, his face pressed just under his ear.

The harshness of their breathing is the only sound in the room for several moments, before Devrim pulls out, Marc gasps, oversensitive, and Devrim makes the most undignified stumble to locate a receptacle for the condom he’s carefully peeling off himself.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard,” Marc admits softly. “That was-” He shakes his head. “I don’t have words.”

“You’ll find you’re in good company,” Devrim returns, short of breath but recovering. “Do you need anything?”

Their fingers find each other when Devrim slides back atop the bed, pressed carefully against his side, skin to skin.

“Not right now. I’ll get up for water eventually.”

“I can-”

“Later. I want to drift in this for a while.” Devrim nods, lips pressed to the joint of Marc’s shoulder. A few moments later, Marc asks, “It was good for you, yeah?”

Devrim answers without hesitation. “Very.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of homophobia in this chapter and the next. We've stumbled into some plot, and things are about to get messy for our boys.

Their first fight comes five months into their relationship. And unlike previous relationships and partners past, it’s not some meaningless lovers quarrel over who’s turn it was to do something or plan a date.

It was bound to happen eventually: Marc’s mother running into them on the street, in the market, bright and early one Saturday morning. This had slowly become part of their weekly routine, heading down from one of their places, getting groceries and produce, and then cooking together in the evening.

But Marc had made a fatal error, withdrawing from Devrim’s arm as though he had the plague, introducing his mother, Esther, to Devrim. Introducing Devrim to her - as one of his good friends. Devrim was certainly cordial, very much his usual brand of polite and charismatic, and the conversation itself went off without a hitch. Well, almost.

“And your lady friend? Margaret, you said?”

“Oh,” Marc answered, his willing his face to remain neutral before sighing, lying through his teeth, “Yeah. She’s great. We’re very happy together.”

“You’ll have to bring her to dinner. We haven’t seen her in forever.”

“Her work keeps her away, as I’ve told you. She’s always so busy, I hardly get to see her, myself.” Panic lances through him, but it’s not himself he’s worried about.

His lies cut through Devrim far sharper than any knife.

“Pardon my interruption, but I believe I’ve forgotten a prior engagement,” Devrim had lied, excusing himself just as Marc’s mother - a similarly bronze skinned woman with long, sun-kissed hair - was chastising her boy for not calling home as much as she liked, “You’ll have to excuse me,” He’d said, handing Marc their groceries. 

Marc looked at him in mounting concern, but Devrim’s eyes were dark. Closed off. If he knew Devrim was furious, he didn’t let on, only nodding at key points in his mother’s monologue, watching his partner’s back as he walked briskly down the street.

The very moment his mother let him off - on the promise that he’d call sometime during the week, he all but ran back to Devrim’s flat. The door was unlocked. Perhaps it wasn’t-

His overnight bag was packed and sitting in the doorway. Devrim would even not look at him, his eyes gazing at the wall across from his couch, hands shaking, wrapped around a mug of tea. 

“Take your things and leave.”

“It’s not-”

_“Now.”_

-/

Devrim isn't at his post the following Monday. All of Marc's messages go unanswered. He needed to see him face-to-face. This wasn't a conversation - a situation to explain over messaging. 

He knew it was doubtful that Dev would be in their usual booth during their lunch hour, yet he still makes a point to look anyway. He checks the entire seating area to make sure that his sniper isn't sitting elsewhere, trying to throw him off. Devrim isn't. Marc will have to try again tomorrow.

By Wednesday, he goes to Devrim’s flat. Stands there for over an hour, like an idiot, knocking every so often. He doesn’t hear any sound inside, and resolves that he must not be in there. Which is strange. Devrim is always home on Wednesday nights. They show some history special he adores - Marc has taken to falling asleep against him while he gushes about Golden Age pyrotechnics and battle strategies.

By Thursday, he’s brave enough to approach the Militia officer who always stands opposite of Devrim in the mornings. Before he can get a word out, she smiles apologetically. “Devrim asked me not to speak with you if you came looking for him,” She informs him tightly.

“Is he alright?”

“I really shouldn’t say.”

“I did something stupid. He must think-” Marc shakes his head. “I’m awful. I just… even if he’s done with me, I want to explain.”

  
The woman looks him over carefully. “Wait. You did something?”

“I-I’m sorry?” Marc tilts his head, eyebrows knitting closer in his confusion. He composes himself. “Yes. I was an idiot. I handled a situation very poorly.”

“Wow. Uh, okay.” The militia-woman adjusts her hat, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Honestly, I thought he broke up with you.”

“What?” That makes his heart leap into his throat like nothing else. Certainly he considered it a rather heavy possibility, and really, this whole thing could have been avoided if he’d just told Devrim. But until he had the opportunity to explain himself, he was desperately trying to pretend like that wasn’t the most likely outcome of the situation. For his own sanity.

The woman rambles on, ignorant of his internal struggle. “Well, I mean, you’re getting to the whole committed stage. Devrim doesn’t do commitment. Nothing ever hurts him. He just doesn’t get that attached, y’know? It’s weird for a guy so polite, but I guess that’s why he’s always so mellow.” She waves a hand. “Anyway. This changes things. Maybe he’ll actually get his act together and want to marry you.”

“We’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of months!” Marc exclaims. He’s relatively certain the higher possibility lies with him being excommunicated than marriage at this rate.

The woman pats his shoulder, laughing nervously. “Shh, keep it down! Look, my CO would be pissed if he saw me talking to you. Just… meet me at the combini at noon, okay? I know where he is.”

Marc nods. “Okay,” He says. “I-” He sighs. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Dev will be sooo mad at me.”

-/

Marc has met Devrim's partner for Tower patrol duty before. Zara is a bit brash, talks before she thinks, but really does mean well. Devrim is fond of her in the way one was of a little sister. She dips into the chair across from Marc as though she's in a hurry. 

"Here's the deal. He showed up Monday and volunteered for an assignment. They sent him out on the first rover headed for Old Russia. I didn't even know they sent us there, but apparently this was some Vanguard assistance thing. He'll be back tomorrow morning." She pauses. "Running away is kind of his thing. Man's afraid of his own feelings, I think." 

She pulls a drink from her pack, and Marc pushes his container of fries closer to the center of the table. She shoves a few in her mouth around saying, "Look. Usually I'm sitting here with him, telling him he should be talking through his breakups. My track record is way worse than his and I actually want to settle down. Anyway," She flops a fry in her hand, conversationally, "Usually he's the one who messes up. Forgets a date on purpose, then sends you a breakup message so polite you're thanking him before you know he's left you in the dirt. It's savage."

"But that's not what happened."

"Yeah," Zara says. "So what did happen?"

"My mother." He sighs, continuing before he loses his nerve. "She's not… she doesn't know I'm attracted to men."

"Exclusively?"

He rubs his left temple, hazel eyes tired and red. "Does it matter?" He sighs. "I introduced Devrim as a friend."

Her jaw hangs. "Shut up."

"What?"

"He did that to the last guy he was with. Or maybe the one before that? I can't remember. Wow, karma is a bitch." Zara leans back, watching Marc's expression sober. "Sorry, sorry, continue."

"My parents think I'm seeing this woman named Margaret. It's just… better, that way. Keeps Mother from nosing around in my business, makes her and my father think I'm on the straight and narrow.

"No." Zara looks at him, like there's something on his face. Staring almost hard enough that it hurts. "Oh. My. Light."

"Yeah."

"So he thinks-"

"Yeah."

"I gotta hand it to you. You really fucked this up."

"Definitely. I think he's gonna dump me."

"I wouldn't be so sure." She examines a fry before popping it in her mouth. "He's got no problem sending a breakup message." She doesn't explain the part where he'd seemed almost desperate to get sent out on an op, or the way his usual neutral, polite expression was saddened and not even the squad's teasing could cheer him up. "I think he needs some space to figure himself out. And I think you need to figure out your next step."

"Next step?"

"You gonna let your folks think you're seeing a woman named Margerie?"

It's Margaret, but Marc doesn't bother correcting her. He gets the point. "I mean-"

"Let's assume it goes well: you explain, Dev forgives, yada yada. You gonna live like this forever?" Her expression turns soft. "I wouldn't think you're here because you want to see it end."

"I'm not."

She smiles. "Good. Devrim will be back tomorrow before noon. He has afternoon rota with me. I'd try and catch him afterwards." She probably pulls the container over to herself, picks it up, and slides out of the booth. "Thanks for the fries."

Marc nods. Normally he'd be upset, but he'd hardly had any himself. Surely Zara can see the gears turning in his brain.

-/

Devrim spends his week doing what he knows best: fieldwork. Assisting Guardians in translating and understanding Fallen transmissions, using those to determine and rig their bases for detonation. Sniping the stragglers from afar while the Guardians dance about like elegant death - and dancing - machines.

He keeps busy. It helps clear his mind. Helps him re-establish his footing. Gives him time to analyze without obsessing. Not that he's obsessing, no. He's not that type, but… If it were really bothering him that much.

Which, it clearly is, as much as he'd like to admit otherwise. It's not until the convoy is on it's day-long expedition home that he lets himself think about what he knows from Marc's conversation with his mother.

At the time, all he'd been able to think about was this other person she'd mentioned, vehemently trying to ramp down the hurt at not being introduced as his partner, which-

Really, that was a whole other thing entirely, and Devrim had already laid awake at night plenty thinking about why that bothered him so. He might be fussy about entering relationships, and selective about who he keeps around, but he's not the type to fall in love. He's kind and doting, sure, but when it comes to forever he's paralyzed, afraid of making an irreversible, incorrect choice.

And yet, he was unmistakably hurt when Marc didn't tell his mother they were together. Normally, it would be a win-win. This was… 

Right. Getting his brain back on track, he thinks back to the conversation. All of Marc's cues, his body language. They were easily discernible as someone trying to cover up a lie, and no doubt, Marc was lying, but the lie itself was up for debate.

And now that he wasn't so livid he thought he'd scream, he supposed they needed to talk.

-/

A hand grabs him as he's headed into work. He's late, but it's better than nothing. "No. Oh no you don't. You look like you're going to keel over. Sit down."

A half-drank cup of coffee is pressed into his hands, and his rear immediately feels the cold of the concrete sinking in. He sighs, feeling his chest rattle with it.

"What happened?"

He doesn't answer that, instead asking, "Won't the squad be mad if they see me talking to you?"

"Whatever. I'm not wearing yesterday's clothes and look like I'm having an allergic reaction." She looks around. The man who stands opposite her and isn't Devrim shakes his head. "Zara, you know how you never understand why you get in trouble?"

"Can't leave someone who needs help. You know me," She grins, shrugging. "Not my style."

He looks up into deep brown eyes, flecked amber in concern. "I'm fine."

"Right, and I'm Ikora Rey."

"She's a Warlock, and I've never seen you both in the same place. Might be true," Comes the call of the other militiaman.

"Ha ha, Mitchell." She rolls her eyes, crouching down in front of Marc, so they're closer, whispering, "You've been crying. What happened?"

"I told my folks."

She rises, swift and serious. "I'm taking my lunch early," She announces. "Cover me."

"Zar-"

"I know, I know. I'll owe you one." She winks.

-/

It takes the younger patrolwoman until the end of the day to talk to him. She's surprisingly attentive to her duty instead of mouthing off at him and chattering about every new weapon released by the bigger foundries. She caves though, like a guilty child, eventually holding his gaze.

"You're gonna be pissed at me," Zara says.

The brim of his uniform hat makes his eyes look exceptionally blue. He narrows them at her and she squirms. "I take it you've meddled while I was away?"

"Uh, a bit," The female officer admits, nervously.

"You're uncomfortable. How much is a bit, exactly?"

"A bit," She grits back, before looking him dead in the eyes. "How much do you like him?"

"A bit," He quips, unable to tell if there’s a tease in there or if she’s being serious. She’s acting suspiciously.

Crossing her arms, she asks, "Even though he lied to his mother?"

Serious, then. He adopts a warning tone. "Zara-"

She interrupts. "Answer the question. If you thought he cheated on you, this would have been cut and dry."

He waits for passers by to be out of earshot before answering, "Why does it sound like you're on his side?"

"Okay. First of all, I didn't think he was going to listen to me. But apparently he's serious about you. So if you're not serious about him, I want to know so I can do damage control."

"Come out with it," Devrim snaps, a sinking feeling in his gut. "What did you do?"

"We talked. He explained what had happened, that his folks aren't exactly… let's say kosher with him being interested in men. I might have said something about how if he wanted to be serious with you, that meant embracing it, even if they'd be unhappy."

His jaw tics. "And?"

"Yeah." She makes a concerning face. "Wasn't kosher at all." Zara looks up at him. "They, weren't good to him. He said he knew it wouldn't go well, but he didn't think they'd be so extreme."

"Extreme, _how_?"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Kay. I can feel the murderous rampage-"

He crosses the cobblestone walkway, to be at a more conversational distance apart. She almost wishes he’d stay back, because him yelling is far less intense than the drop in his tone and his focused attention. "I will not. Explain yourself."

"I took my break early. Walked him to his flat for some clothes, then dropped him off at mine. Everything's wrecked. He called them last night, it went south, they invited themselves over. He'd left when they started throwing things and having a tantrum. Really childish of them, if you ask me."

His hands find her shoulders, decorum the only thing preventing him from shaking her. "Tell me he's unharmed."

Zara pats his scruffy cheek. "You do have it bad," She marvels. "Physically, he's fine."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, my interpretation of this relationship is as follows: Marc is bisexual. Devrim is homosexual. Some of the discussion within this chapter talks about unhealthy coping mechanisms for the sake of salvaging familial relationships. If this author can impart only one thing to you let it be this: please do not be afraid to be yourself. If people do not respect you, or say they will not love you for being the person you are inside, they never really loved you in the first place. They do not deserve you.

"I'm sorry," Marc says. "For lying. And hurting you. There isn't anyone else."

The roughness of his voice makes Devrim flinch. He's standing there, beside his squadmate's tiny loveseat, and has never felt more out of his depth.

"I'm sorry-"

"None of this is your fault," Marc interrupts. "I did this."

He crouches down beside Marc, well aware that his heart is jackhammering in his chest. "I should have talked to you," Dev prattles on anyway. "Letting it simmer and taking an op certainly didn't help."

"It's fine." 

"Look at me."

Marc shakes his head, his mussed, wavy hair hanging down like curtains to shield his face from his partner's view. Devrim sighs and stands in front of him, dropping back down, taking a knee this time. "It didn't help."

"I could have avoided upsetting you if I just told you, but I didn't, and-"

"We're going to get through this, you and I."

His head rockets up, those sad hazel eyes locking on him and Devrim doesn't know if he wants to pull Marc into his arms and never let him go, fight all of his battles for him, or maybe shed a couple tears himself. It's an unusual reaction for him to have. 

But this relationship is certainly unusual, Devrim thinks. They're not sick of each other - Marc, the charming flirt who never seems to stay in one place for long, and himself - the gentleman who's all about romance until the threat of permanence becomes a noose around his throat.

"Alright?" He gives in to the impulse and encircles Marc with his arms. "Please," He asks, aware of the tremor in his voice. "Let me hold you."

It's not comfortable, Devrim half sitting on Zara's coffee table, leaning over Marc who has curled in on himself. None of this was. It was new and heartbreaking and so terribly raw. Devrim felt horrible for his younger partner, and utterly useless. All he can do is hold onto him, shushing and rocking him as he cries. And he commits himself to it thoroughly.

When his sobs subside heavy, ragged breaths, Devrim smooths back his hair, handing him a handkerchief from his back pocket. "Zara said she took you to get some clothes?"

He nods. 

"Good. When you're ready, we'll go back to my place and figure this all out, alright?"

"Okay," He agrees softly, but his grip on Devrim gets tighter and the militiaman takes it as a step in the right direction.

-/

Marc won't sleep. Won't eat. Devrim gets him home and the other man just stares off at nothing, his eyes red and glazed. The occasional tremors he sees suggests Marc would still be crying, assuming he had any tears left to cry.

He'd hoped that Marc might want to lie down, let Devrim coax him into sleep. But he refused, sitting at a stool in the kitchen, watching the tea Devrim had made them both go cold in his hands. Wouldn't come to the couch, at least get comfortable.

Now, Devrim has a sneaking suspicion why, but he doesn't like it. "Marc, you should sleep, before we have this discussion," He says.

He makes a sad little smile into his tea. "All the chamomile in the world couldn't relax me enough," He admits, with an off-kilter laugh that seems more like a sob. "Dev, I won't sleep. I'll just lay awake."

"If you're sure." He sets about fixing a different kind of tea. Not chamomile. When he pries the mug from Marc's fingers, he lingers, his fingers resting over Marc's.

There is no response, no movement from the younger man until another mug of tea - piping hot chai - is placed in front of him.

"It's not espresso, but it'll have to do."

"It's fine," He answers dully.

Silence reigns as Devrim also takes a seat at the kitchen island on a perpendicular stool. Marc inhales, looking down into the dark liquid.

"I lied to my mother. And you," He begins, not looking up.

Devrim nods.

Marc sighs. "Before, I only ever brought home women I was seeing," He begins. "Not like I made it a point to see them often, or like I enjoyed seeing them." He taps the mug, brows pulling together as he thinks. "I created this 'Margaret' person, to keep them from asking questions. I went with a girl named Margaret once. We went to school together. She lives on the other side of the City now. No one ever had to know."

There's a moment of tentative silence before Devrim reaches for his hands - a hand, something - but Marc shakes his head. Dev withdraws, clenching his fists.

"I always thought that I'd fall for a woman, and then I could just keep it to myself."

"That's not the way, Marc. You shouldn't have to-"

"No," He agrees. "I shouldn't. But it is what it is. It wasn't worth upsetting my parents." He lets go of the mug of tea, looking up into his partner's blue gaze. "I could handle it, y'know?"

"Marc…"

"Let me finish," He begs. "I never meant to hurt you. I was just trying to get through the conversation. I was going to explain it the second we'd gotten through the interaction, I swear."

"I know."

"You didn't at the time," Marc presses. "You looked at me like I'd stolen the sun from the sky, Devrim. Like I'd punched you in the gut."

"You're right," He agrees, lips thinning. He takes a sip of his tea to steady himself. "That is… close, to what it felt like."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I forgive you." Devrim answers immediately. "I just needed to cool off. I - your body language bothered me, but it - I'm not normally so irrational," He finally admits. "Never, to be honest. Normally I'd see right through it, and yet all I could think about was that there was someone else. I'm not - those things happen, Marc. Normally, it's no hard feelings, rejection stings, sure, but it doesn't waylay me." He exhales. "I'm terrible at keeping suitors around when I care for them. It's never them, I just.” The truth is heavy on his tongue. “Permanence leaves a lot of room for error, you understand."

There is a sort of hope that grips Marc then, like a small spot of sun in a rainstorm. Devrim reaches for his hands again, and this time they link together in a messy pile.

"I want to be with you, if you will have me," Devrim says, and Marc nods, his overused tear ducts managing to find themselves functional again. "Don't cry, darling. I'm liable to as well." They both manage watery smiles, not lasting long at all, but the warmth seems to find its way back into the room. "Now tell me what happened. Zara said-"

He squeezes Devrim's hands and withdraws. "They disowned me," He admits softly, detached. "I knew it was coming. I think," He takes a pull from his mug, flinching at the taste, "I think I always knew."

Devrim crosses his arms. "That isn't right."

"I mean, it didn't really bother me. I called, told my ma you were my partner. She didn't get it. She got it when I used the word boyfriend. You'd have thought I told her I was a serial killer. Asked me when I 'turned,'" He quotes. "If you turned me."

He sets the mug down. "She never knew. Raised me, pushed me from her womb and neither her or my dad had a single clue." He gestures to his chest. "Nobody turned me. This has always been who I am."

"I get it."

"I hung up on her when she started with the slurs. She doesn't understand. She's never understood." He bangs his hand on the counter top. "She and my dad came over, after. Started carrying on in the hall when I didn't let them in. So I did. Let them in." He looks to Devrim. "I-I didn't want the neighbors to phone in a domestic. And I paid for it."

"The apartment is bad," Marc continues, strained. "I don't think I want to live there anymore." 

"We'll figure it out," Devrim presses. "You need to sleep on it."

Marc shakes his head, having already made up his mind. "I don't want them to know where I live." He puffs out his cheeks, then pushes the air from them slowly. "They can say what they want about me. They made me. I guess they have the right-"

"That isn't how it works at a-"

"But then they started calling you a faggot and I lost it. You didn't do anything. My mother thought you were wonderful right up until she knew you were interested in me romantically. I'm not-if it was just me, that'd be okay. But when I got in her face, told her she'd overstayed her welcome, my father threw his drink at me. Broke the glass on the kitchen floor."

"He didn't-"

"No."

"Good."

"I realize I look like hell, and now's probably not the best time to convince anyone otherwise, but I'm not broken, Dev. I know I'm not."

Devrim rises, coming around behind his emotionally battered man, hugging him fiercely. "No. You're not broken, Marc. Shame on them for insinuating otherwise."

"My father wondered if it was something curable. I like women, too, so no one would have to know, if I just kept to seeing women. It got," He swallows. "I told them to fuck off. And then when he really started throwing things, I knew it wasn't going to work. Not like this."

"I understand," Devrim says, swaying gently in their embrace. "I'm sorry you're going through this. Perhaps they'll come around."

"I'm not holding my breath," Marc replies, mumbling.

"Do you regret it?" Devrim asks.

Marc rises slowly, tired and unbalanced. "I'm sad. Angry. Hurt." His lips tremble, but he gives Devrim his best attempt at a smile. "But it's kind of nice not to hold it in anymore. Even if it didn't come up often, I don't want to pretend."

"Nor should you have to," Devrim agrees.

"Do you mind if I take the couch until I sort things out?"

Devrim sweeps him up in a romantic carry. "We'll talk terms in the morning. There is a perfectly good bed we can share, so long as you are willing."


End file.
